"Softly, Harry," said his brother; "you are ready enough with what is not yours to give; but where is your own story that you promised, and which indeed we should have a right to demand, whether you had promised it or not?" "I am working at it, Ralph, in my spare moments, which are not very many; and I want to choose the right sort of night to tell it in, too. This one wouldn't do at all. There's no moon." "If it is a horrid story, it is a pity you did not read it last time, before you set out to cross the moor." "Oh, that night would not have done at all. A night like that drives all fear out of one's head. But indeed it is not finished yet.--May I repeat the parable now, Miss Cathcart?" "What do you mean by a _parable_, Mr. Henry?" interrupted Mrs. Cathcart. "It sounds rather profane to me." "I mean a picture in words, where more is meant than meets the ear." "But why call it a parable?" "Because it is one." "Why not speak in plain words then?" "Because a good parable is plainer than the plainest words. You remember what Tennyson says--that 'truth embodied in a tale Shall enter in at lowly doors'?" "Goethe," said the curate, "has a little parable about poems, which is equally true about parables-- 'Poems are painted window-panes. If one looks from the square into the church, Dusk and dimness are his gains-- Sir Philistine is left in the lurch. The sight, so seen, may well enrage him, Nor any words henceforth assuage him. But come just inside what conceals; Cross the holy threshold quite-- All at once,'tis rainbow-bright; Device and story flash to light; A gracious splendour truth reveals. This, to God's children, is full measure; It edifies and gives them pleasure.'" "I can't follow that," said Adela. "I will write it out for you," said Harry; "and then you will be able to follow it perfectly." "Thank you very much. Now for your parable." "It is called _The Lost Church_; and I assure you it is full of meaning." "I hope I shall be able to find it out." "You will find the more the longer you think about it. 'Oft in the far wood, overhead, Tones of a bell are heard obscurely; How old the sounds no sage has said, Or yet explained the story surely. From the lost church, the legend saith, Out on the winds, the ringing goeth; Once full of pilgrims was the path-- Now where to find it, no one knoweth. Deep in the wood I lately went, Where no foot-trodden path is lying; From the time's woe and discontent, My heart went forth to God in sighing. When in the forest's wild repose, I heard the ringing somewhat clearer; The higher that my longing rose, Downward it rang the fuller, nearer.